


This Is Jezebel

by mostlydeadlanguages



Category: Christian Bible (Old Testament), תנ"ך | Tanakh
Genre: Canon Queer Character, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Midrash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:35:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlydeadlanguages/pseuds/mostlydeadlanguages
Summary: The moments leading to Queen Jezebel's death, as seen by one of those who stood beside her.





	This Is Jezebel

_When Jehu came to Jezreel, Jezebel heard of it; she painted her eyes, and adorned her head, and looked out of the window. As Jehu entered the gate, she said, “Is it peace, Zimri, murderer of your master?” He looked up to the window and said, “Who is on my side? Who?” Two or three eunuchs looked out at him. He said, “Throw her down.” So they threw her down; some of her blood spattered on the wall and on the horses, which trampled on her. Then he went in and ate and drank; he said, “See to that cursed woman and bury her; for she is a king’s daughter.” But when they went to bury her, they found no more of her than the skull and the feet and the palms of her hands. When they came back and told him, he said, “This is the word of the LORD, which he spoke by his servant Elijah the Tishbite, ‘In the territory of Jezreel the dogs shall eat the flesh of Jezebel; the corpse of Jezebel shall be like dung on the field in the territory of Jezreel, so that no one can say, This is Jezebel.’”_ — 2 Kings 9:30-37, NRSV  


* * *

  
“There are three ways that this can go,” she says, “and all of them end with my death.”

I shake my head, fingers clenching around the pot of kohl. "You don’t know that. Perhaps he will—" My voice fails.

“There are three ways that this can go,” the queen repeats. "And give me that brush. Today, I want to do my makeup myself.“

I hand her the small brush mutely, glancing at the others to see if they have a better response to her words. They avoid my gaze.

With hands that do not tremble, despite her age, the queen dips the brush into the pot and begins to apply it around her eyes, peering at herself in a gleaming bronze mirror. "In the first path,” she continues, “I give him what he wants. I invite him in and serve him platters of fatted lambs, spiced pheasants, and soft bread baked from fine-sieved flour. I tell him that I will not stand in his way, that I wish only to live out my life in obscurity. And then I die, by poison or dagger, because he will not permit a reminder of Omri’s legacy to live. Don’t lie to me; I know you’ve heard the rallying cries. 'Remember Naboth!’ As if any of them had cared about the farmer when he lived.”

As her voice rises, a small twitch mars the smooth curves of kohl that line her eyes. Carefully, she dabs it away and takes a deep breath. "I refuse. I will not share bread with the man who slaughtered my son. So then there is the second option — we fight. My soldiers are loyal to me, and I know that even you can wield a dagger. We cannot win against Jehu’s army, but we could make them pay for their victory.” A deep breath. “But what then? I die, and you die as well, all for the pride of an old woman who refused to bow to her destiny.“ She shakes her head. "My friends, I love you — all of you — too dearly to let you die as Joram did.”

“We would, though,” I say bravely.

To be fair, I am not sure whether I believe myself; Jezebel is a generous mistress, but I am rather attached to my own continued life. Still, my statement pleases her, and she smiles wryly, handing back the kohl brush. "You humor an old woman.“ Before I can protest that she is not old yet, she continues, "Now give me my comb. My hair must be flawless.”

I do so, then bring over the tub of thick, dark hair oil. The actions are so familiar that I can almost forget the pall that lies over the palace, the way that all of us stiffen every time we hear hoofbeats in the distance. Jehu is coming, we all know — but he is not here yet.

Jezebel combs the oil into her hair, molding it into a shimmering black coiffure. Normally, we would help her braid and pin the strands into place, but she waves away our hands. "Now then. The third path. If my death is swift and unequivocal — if you help Jehu overthrow me — then you will have proved your value to him, and he may let you live for it. You are not Ahab’s kin; you are not among the prophets of Baal or Asherah. He will suspect you of divided loyalty, of course, but that is why you must act against me where everyone can see.“

"You’re asking us to —” The words die in my throat.

“To kill me. Yes. Only that will prove your loyalty beyond doubt.”

I shudder. I remember little before I joined the lavish court of Ahab and Jezebel — first as a young serving boy, then as a eunuch in her service — and I cannot recall ever killing anything larger than an insect. I imagine running a dagger across her neck, and bile rises in my throat.

Everyone else in the room has abandoned even the pretext of not listening to our conversation. Their eyes are as wide as mine, their cheeks as pale with fear.

“I command you this, as your queen,” Jezebel says firmly. "If I cannot avoid my own death — and who can, in the end? — then I will choose its nature. You are my dearest friends, my truest allies. Let your hands be my final touch.“ She nods at the large window across the room, where a wooden lattice provides privacy while letting through the afternoon breeze. "Move the lattice. I will greet Jehu from here, and he will see you behind me, around me, and think me vulnerable. He will tell you what to do.”

At first, no one moves. "Must I order you a second time?“ she snaps, and two of the other eunuchs hurry to lift the lattice away. Jezebel nods, satisfied. "One thing more.”

“Anything, my queen,” I hasten to reply.

Her voice, now, is quieter. In another woman, I might even call it vulnerable. "Tell my story. I will have no stele to preserve my name for the generations; I will have no songs to retell my deeds. But tell others that I painted my own eyes and faced my own end, fierce as Anat and beautiful as Asherah. Tell them that I refused to bow.“

"We will,” I say. My eyes are damp; were I a man, I would be ashamed. But I am no man, and I let the tears blur my vision and fall down my cheek.

“Enough of that,” she says briskly. "Now, I am ready to face my end, and Jehu still tarries on his path. So seat yourself and tell me a story. Perhaps of the young guard you mentioned?“

I smile, only slightly forced, and take my seat beside her. The queen has sharp eyes, and she noticed weeks ago that I had a fondness for one of the newer guards at court, a young man from Dothan with the most beautiful smile. So I launch into a story — only slightly embellished — of a night walk in the gardens. I tell of plying the lad with increasingly overt invitations, all while dodging other denizens of the garden, only to have the innocent village boy misunderstand my intent entirely.

The ribald humor hits its target, and soon Jezebel is laughing at each implausible twist. I have nearly run out of anecdotes when I hear the rumble of incoming horse hooves — not just one messenger, or one caravan, but a full army of riders. My words trail off, but the light in Jezebel’s eyes is resolute. "Remember,” she says, “I wish to feel your hands, not his. Never his.”

Then she rises from her chair and walks over to the window, robed in purple and gold, ageless and fearless. When the riders halt at the base of the palace, one of their company pulls forward, and I recognize Jehu, despite the layered dust and blood that cakes on him.

“Be strong,” Jezebel murmurs, then raises her voice to project into the courtyard. "Do you come in peace?“ she calls out, lips curled with irony.

I step forward to stand at her side, and I gird myself for what I must do.


End file.
